Learning Happiness from Georgia Tech: La Plaza de los Toros

Modern day Spain may not exactly live up to the romanticized expectations of ornate monarchies, suave accents, charming people, and paella galore, but there is one uniquely Spanish experience that overwhelmed my expectations magnanimously: the bullfights. While studying for my final exams this afternoon, my roommate Emily informed me that we would be going to a bullfight in an hour and a half. I halfheartedly argued against it, not wanting to do any more damage to my euro-less bank account, but eventually gave in without too much arm twisting. The spectacle that ensued was undoubtedly the product of the most well-spent five euros of this trip.

After emerging from the metro, we turned around and I had to catch my breath as the famed Madrilenian Plaza de los Toros loomed before me. As my eyes gradually made their way to ground-level, we were daunted by the enormous, snaking line of people. However, about ten minutes later, we found that the line seemed to disintegrate, and within half an hour we had our tickets. As we made our way to our seats, the electrically charged air was filled with the shouts of venders selling food, souvenirs, and seat cushions. We wandered through the tunnel, and I found myself staring at hundreds of seats rising from the dirt ring. It was like a Jags game and Monster Jam combined, and I was instantly enamored.

Like in Pamplona, I was somewhat surprised to see the methodic manner with which the bullfight unfolded. There were three torreros, six toros, and several other workers with different rolls who made appearances throughout the evening. I’m not sure of the official terminology of all parties involved, but in general, the structure of each round was as follows:

First, three or four men bedazzled with sparkling costumes and carrying crimson and gold banderas entered the ring, preceded by a blast of trumpets from a small band in the stands. These men would hide behind small portions of wall, and pop out to taunt the bull, resulting in the bulls prancing agitatedly around the ring, tails up and heads bent forward. After about five or so minutes of this, the next crew came in. This included two armor-clad, rider-bound, blindfolded horses, as well as about three men who carried sharp palos. The bull tended to charge at one of the unsuspecting horses first. When this was the case, they received a sharp jab from the rider, who used a long spear-like stick that only penetrated about three inches. This was usually not sufficient to stop the attack, and so the “distracters” would try to draw the bull away. Eventually, the three men would tackle their tasks, running at the bull and driving the barbed sticks into the fleshy hump on the bull’s thick neck. After this segment, the bull careened about, with the six colorful sticks dangling from its back. Only then would the actual bull-fighter enter and finish the job.

After each fighter has taken on his two bulls, which took about two and a half hours after accounting for raking the ring between rounds and the bulls that got injured early on and got disqualified, it was all over. As the last bull was dragged off by decorated, jingling donkeys, a rented seat cushion flew through the air and settled in the dust. Hundreds more followed suit. I found this a rather odd tradition, but come on… who hasn’t wanted to fling something from a stadium seat? After tossing a few leftover cushions, we exited the stadium and joined the throng flooding towards the metro.

Bull fights are definitely not for the feint of stomach, but if one can manage to steel his or herself long enough, I strongly advise making an effort to witness one of these fantastic man-vs.-beast phenomena. I cannot even begin to describe the excitement and adrenaline that coursed through the crowd, even for the young and inexperienced bullfighters that we had been watching. In the meantime, keep an eye out for the potentially upcoming Georgia version of this sport… straight from some crazy man’s farm in Swainsboro.